


Thrice Bitten, Forthwith Forevermore Shy

by SaltyTeaLeaves



Category: Castlevania (1986), Castlevania Chronicles, Castlevania: Lords of Shadow, Castlevania: Lords of Shadow 2, Castlevania: Mirror of Fate, 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, Christian sacrilege, Father/Son Incest, Heresy, Illusions, Incest, M/M, Mind Games, Plot With Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Religious Conflict, Shame, Slow Burn, Tentacle molestation, Tentacles, Tight Spaces, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-08-25 07:03:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16656469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltyTeaLeaves/pseuds/SaltyTeaLeaves
Summary: The suffocating dark of night gives birth to sinful desires born of the creatures that claim the twilight hours as their own. Dreams become manifest within ornamental chambers of gold and blood, between cracked walls and needy groans.The year is 1347, and Dracula's terror has been burned into the hearts of all man. Though the brotherhood launches constant campaigns upon his castle, it is Alucard, once the noble Trevor Belmont, who seeks to slay his father first, and right the wrongs of his lineage.But what is rage in the face of desperation and passion, turned bitter and sickly with the achings of forbidden (dare I even say; profane?) lust?





	1. Prologue: Ruminations, or The Morality of Conflict.

Prologue:  
Ruminations, or The Morality of Conflict.

What is a man?  
   
Is he defined by his physical design, or the soul bound to it? Is he merely the sum of his parts, or the culmination of his achievements? Dare one even assume he is nothing more than a miserable pile of secrets? Consider, if you will, that the subject of 'what a man is', is secondary to what defines a man. For we rarely focus upon the material, the stone from which grand marvels are carved, but rather upon the method, and the skill of its creator. 

A century past, there was one such man whose soul was tempered in the fires of the greatest conflict one might face; The conflict of good, and evil. For it was unto him, a trained knight of the Brotherhood of Light, a grand task was cast down: To reconnect the land of man to that of the angels, and of the Father Himself. In such regards, he had felt justified in his actions, however cruel, or greedy, or vengeful. There was no moment of remorse when his barbed whip sawed through the jugular of the Lycanthrope Lord Cornell, nor did he shed a tear when he cast his crucifix deep into the ribs of Camilla, Queen of the Vampires. Not even a second of pity for his brethren who had died upon similar quests, only a passing glance to reach amidst their rotting corpses to tear free their most treasured belongings. As his power grew, and his will hardened yet more and more with each slain foe, he remained assured that his actions were still justified.   
But in the real world, the lines of morality are blurred, and memory a plaything of those that would declare themselves gods. For it is unto this end that even at the end of everything, that the land of man was rejoined rejoicefully with the golden gates of God, that Satan, the serpent himself, had humbled himself in haughty indignation before Gabriel’s hand, that he was denied his one true wish: The return of his wrongfully taken beloved. Nor was he even offered a secondary wish, that being to ascend with her in heaven. Instead, he was left below, amidst the animals, and the beasts, amidst the chaos and devastation that he had sewn upon the earth.  
Ironically, it was atop the mountain of the Necromancer’s land, where the sun and moon and stars were mere tools of mirrors and broken dreams, that all good in Gabriel ascended to the heavens, much like the founders of his order. While all that remained below was a husk of a man, and even that turned to ash as the cold corpse of a child, though plagued with vampiric ailment, hung limply in his arms. Gabriel was no more, and what stood over the smoldering corpse of one who would see himself strike the word of God, and all life, from the annals of history, was delegated evil manifest.

Now, it is understandable that without conflict, one finds themselves discontent, and disheartened. Within the ruined remnants of Camilla’s rubble-strewn castle, this shadow of a man sat atop his throne of bittersweet victory, and beheld the sickly truth of the world. For, in his quest to slay the Lords of Shadow, he had mistakenly assumed his foes were the source of a tumor, and with their violent removal, one might expect the cancer of Lycanthropy, Vampirism, and Necromancy to shrivel up and die. However, this immediate diagnosis was incorrect, and they were more accurately the first patients of a plague, and though their corpses were burned free of the disease, the epidemic would continue to spread.   
At first, he had lamented, for his quest had yielded no fruit for either him, or the people of this world. But what challenge, what achievement would there be in forever slaying the dregs of darkness that slowly crept into his castle, with their heads bowed down in praise? For even atop a million of their corpses he would be seen as a monster still. Their willing subservience brought with it the title of Prince of Darkness, and as they slowly filled the corridors of the Bernhard Castle, this ‘Prince ‘ found himself wondering what purpose an army of such magnitude served. Consider, then, that these were an extension of his being. They were, as he was, a fundamental, and ever-present, cog in the great wheel of things.   
They were neither good, nor evil, for such things are trifles in the face of the natural order of the world. Is the night evil for swallowing up the sun’s rays, and denying the crops their needed light? Is the day evil for forcing the bats, and creatures of the night, to cower in their abyssal abodes? 

Rather, what was truly evil was a will to upset the balance of the world.

The Brotherhood, much like his previously misguided self, sought his demise, but then what? Should their chosen paladin or cleric exorcize his blood-soaked form, then they too would find themselves atop his still warm throne. The cycle would continue, albeit less stable, until eventually, the wheel of time would career off, and either one man, or one monster, would find itself stumbling through the wastes of a broken world, wondering if it was all, truly, worth it.   
To every chess board, there is the white, and the black. To every coin, there is the monarch of the age, and the symbol of his land. To every species, there was its prey, and its natural predator. He was the storm of the human race, the conflict to which man would temper himself against. The Brotherhood of Light would cast themselves, bound not by caste or heritage or race, but by goal, upon the towering walls of his castle, and would fail every time. The forces of darkness, corpses, and demons alike, would choke upon his tightly held reigns, before being set free upon the villages of man to raze them to the ground, lest those born of Adam forget whom their ever-present adversary is. 

Therefore, the balance would continue evermore, and all would be as ordained in the world of both the natural, and the unnatural, until the end of time itself.


	2. Chapter One: Castle of Phantoms

Chapter One:  
Castle of Phantoms

The tall, crimson candles flickered as a slow, icy breeze drifted through the banquet room,  
dancing along the rim of golden plates overflowing with hot blood, and slipping over the pallid skin of piled corpses as if it were invisible silk meant solely to grace their ruined flesh. The cold rays of the moon squeezed between cracked masonry, casting painfully bright rays down upon the dark, messy feast where vampires (or perhaps, beasts, given their ravenous appetite) tore flesh from still screaming victims, though the voices of said victims might as well have been the squeaks of timid mice, for they fell upon deaf, or simply callous, ears.  
Ruby blood sprayed across crimson drapes as limbs were pulled free of their torsos to be replaced with sharp fangs digging in. It was as if the night had become an orchestra of screams, and cracking bones, and gargling laughter. A bizarre chorus, if you have a penchant for such frivolities, accompanied in equal barbarism with cutlery and tableware as the instruments. Bowls were licked clean with coarse, cold tongues. Forks and knives were forced into still screeching captives in an attempt to tear them open. And mugs, topped with that slimy scarlet ichor, were held high in honour of the man who slouched in his throne, overlooking it all with a furrowed brow, who offered not even the faintest wave to his minions before they returned to their gorging.  
That is, of course, if one might still consider him a man.  
Though shadow shrouded his form, a gaze as fiery as hell itself burned brightly from within the dark, rarely blinking as it watched his brethren feast, as if they were caged, rabid wolves devouring a sacrificial doe. Perhaps it was a contemptuous sense of disgust, or brazen disdain, that drove him to watch them like this, gently twirling his own overflowing chalice of long cold gore, despite it being the first drawn this evening. Once they had been men, and women, some born of the very villages where these poor souls were stolen from in the night. Perhaps they had dreams? Ideals, hopes, and desires. Love, and hate, and honour. All things twisted and bent crookedly out of shape as putrid blood was forced down their throats, burning their insides and poisoning their minds until even their own kin resembled nothing more than wineskins ready to burst.

Remnants of his humanity remained, despite his obvious inhumanity. It was stronger, at least, than that of these malformed creatures of the night crawling across the table like filthy rats, despite how very, very long ago it had been since this noble-being had considered himself one of God's children. Perhaps it was the fire that had tempered his soul which had burned the shape of a man into his pale figure? Though unkempt, with long, curling locks rolling messily down his shoulders, and dark rings doggedly hovering around his glowing glare, he was unmistakably handsome. The night's curse, it would seem, suited him.  
If one were to paint a portrait of this cold-blooded deity, they might note his angular features, or the lustrous shimmer to his ebony tresses, or perhaps his ungodly pale complexion, or how shadows seemed to creep closer to meet his own, taking comfort in the thick, palpable dark that followed him wherever he went. At the very least, none of them would refer to the sharp, maintained facial hair that curled above his lip, and jutted down from his chin, as an unfinished, ungraceful stain upon God's green Earth that those of the modern age might label a "goatee".  
Many things, however, were not as he had remembered them. His nails, for instance, had once been short, and cracked, from many a day spent gripping the rough leather bindings of his whip with fervour and rage in each swing.  
Now they were longer, and sharper, than those of any woman he had met in his living years. His teeth, stained yellow from herbal teas, and tonics, now were pure white, and fanged in such a way that it would take little more than a faint nip to sever even the most hardy of arteries. In fact, all that remained of his years riding from village to village, castle to castle, with nothing but the Lord and his whip by his side, was the muscular form presented so unabashedly to the world, and the deep, greyed scars of many battles long ago won, and lost, that carved uneven definition upon said muscles.  
Many a man might feel shame for his wounds, deep and cruel, that forced the skin to tighten and discolour. To an immortal such things were further promulgation that he could not, and would not, ever taste the acrid breath of death, for he wore his robes agape to bare his firm breasts to the icey nights, and made no effort to hide the markings of claws and fangs from creatures who had tasted holy retribution in days of yore. Such beasts they had been, from towering titans of terrible tenacity and steel-braced concrete, to miscreations caught somewhere between beast and vampire, lumbering about with meat cleavers in hand and the stench of bile, and human fat, polluting their hot breath to such a degree that even a rotting corpse smelled more pleasant in comparison. What satisfaction he had felt, even then, when their steaming blood splattered upon his face, and soaked his leather armour in their life essence, though back then he had felt deep shame afterward, for rage was a sin the eyes of the Lord. But now he was the thorn in His side, and took great pride in the equally great pleasure he felt when that hot, sticky substance coursed down his body, gently caressing his sides with its velvety embrace.

Once more the creatures of the night cheered for him, dragging his attention back to the current evening. Perhaps they were speaking of his great deeds, or his tenacity in battle, albeit with an air of caution in their tales, lest said storied feats become all too real once again. It mattered not to the Prince of Darkness, for he had concluded his socializing, and had already slipped out of the room before any of his revellous troops had noted his vacation of the room. Interacting with the soldiers of his army was a rarity, and even then one he spared not a shred of enthusiasm for. These fortunate fighters had serendipitously assailed what had at first been assumed as a Carnival caravan, but upon further inspection had yielded results most rewarding, namely that this was the traveling party of a wayward noble, and his courtly advisors, who had been segregated from their royal entourage, and the protection that it ensured. The blood of those who had dined upon candied fruits and rare meats their entire lives, rather than that of those who had tasted nothing but gruel and porridge, was incomparable. The most coherent relation of taste one might convey to those who braced the warm daylight blessed of God, was that of comparing a fine vintage wine, with hints of cinnamon, honey and cloves to stagnant dish water turned putrid.  
The lower class vampires knew little other than that foul taste, but to the higher-born who stalked the halls of candlelit castles? Even the blood of nobles bordered undrinkable if their family was too poor to afford a steady diet of caramelized desserts, and roasted pheasant.

The Prince wandered down the hallways, without aim or purpose, taking the opportunity every so often to stop, and sip the coagulating blood, before pressing on. Even the air felt thick, with pressure building around him as he ventured deeper and deeper into the winding castle. So much so that the heavy cobwebs that hung before him were unnoticeable compared to the crushing dark of the Bernhard castle. Further and further in, without a soul in sight (not even his own) as all trace of the outside world was swallowed up behind cold masonry and flickering candles that grew duller and duller the deeper he ventured, until he stopped. Frozen in place, he stared down the hallway, through the abandoned webs, and softly falling dust, to the broken mirror at the end. It was shattered beyond repair, with the wood board behind it cracked in two, and fragments of glass spread as haphazardly across the faded rugs as the blood that had soaked the dining hall so thoroughly.

His red gaze tightened, frowning at it as he slowly approached. Not out of fear, or caution, but sombre appreciation for what had once been a thing of luxury, now destroyed. No reflection looked back at him in the cracked glass, nor would it ever as he stared down into the mirrored, empty corridor. Once, he had gifted his wife with a small piece of mirror, much like the one he cradled gently within his long cold hand. Back then, it had been a great piece of beauty, for mirrors were a rare treasure amongst those of lower class, much like he, and his darling Marie, belonged to. It could have bought them a large boar, or perhaps a sizable leg of venison to enjoy.

In retrospect, it was little more than trash. Nothing but a petty trinket that should have been discarded.

Frustration burned brightly in his eyes and the Prince crushed the small piece of mirror within his grip, before letting the shards, and blood, spill onto the floor.  
How pathetic he had been. This melancholic nostalgia was for the life of a dead man - one who should stay dead, and cease his interruptions post-haste. He was a fool, an obedient warhound, or better yet? A sacrificial lamb swayed easily with a promised pail of oats set upon an altar stinking of death, and pain.  
His heels turned quickly upon the carpet, and away he strode from the fateful mirror, leaving behind the empty golden chalice, and instead opting to lift a half-full bottle of wine so set in cellar dust that it was guaranteed a vintage as old as he. Upon nearing one of the many corners of the castle, he propped his back against it and cracked open the bottle with a satisfying "Pop" before leaning in to take in the bitter, yet sickly sweet, aromas wafting out, which subtly suggested it may even predate his own birth.  
To his left a figure stood, clad in darkness and poised on the tips of his feet with his tempered steel-clad gauntlet gripped firmly around the hilt of a sword no doubt made of blessed silver and wrought in leather soaked in holy oils. The stench of the house of God hung around this figure in equal measure, and direct contrast, to the smokey aroma of undeath clinging to its porcelain-like skin.  
"I have heard," the Prince of Darkness began, gently motioning to the abandoned bottle with his talon-like nails. "That the finest wines are those that belong to others, though I never imagined you would stalk my pantry for a vintage this olde. It reeks of cherry, and oak, though lacks the subtle hint of rose one would expect in such a drink. "  
"I was under the impression you did not enjoy alcohol." The assumed assassin responded, his bare-knuckled grasp never halting for a moment to permit the freshly lacquered leather-bound haft respite.

"Oh, I never drink..." the vampire paused, with a wry grin spreading across his lips. "...Wine. But for you? I will make an exception."


	3. Chapter Two: Colloquy of Pretext

Chapter Two:  
Colloquy of Pretext

 

The pale Prince of Darkness pulled the half-full bottle of liquor to his icy lips, swallowing the watery, cold liquid in plentiful gulps, before pulling away with a grimace spread across his face. The consistency, temperature, and taste, were far from his preferred variety of drink.

"Tell me, would-be slayer, to what do I owe the pleasure of your return?"

The pale figure wavered, struggling between the two equally appealing options of slaughtering this wretched spawn of the abyss, whose figure mocked the memory of a long gone holy man, and forcing himself to directly converse with it.  
"I will end your reign of terror, here and now, monster." The latter was, for the time being, opted in favour of. A slow chuckle crept out of the royal vampire with a tone resembling that of rough-hewn granite blocks dragging across sandstone, carving a distinct trail through the eerily quiet, near freezing, night.

"And you intend to do so with that?" The younger man gripped his holy blade tighter yet, determined not to let it go in spite of the vampire's veracious jeering. "Despite knowing full well that even one of the 'great Gandolfi's legendary combat crosses' did little more than weaken me?" He smiled to himself, briefly recalling the many years spent wielding such a device across the lands untread by mortal man.

The intruder's voice was smooth, yet heavy as the grave. As if the vocal manifestation of a mighty eagle soaring inches above a still ocean. "You speak as if ten years have not passed since such an event, and with your assumed destruction the castle itself fell to ruin beneath the sun's golden rays. Your energy has been expended with the Bernhard family home's resurrection, as well as your own. That is why your armies have not yet marched with red banners and cruel intent upon the world of man. You are weak, and vulnerable."

Such leaps of reason! The Dragon himself had to give the young vampire credit, though it would undoubtedly be folly to refer to Dracula in any state as truly 'weak'. Vulnerable, mayhaps, but weakness was a bitter poison he had yet to let course through his cold veins. "That is... a rational conclusion. But, if you truly intended to bring about my death you would not have come alone. It took the skill of two trained slayers to even wound me all those years past."

"Do not bring Simon into this!" The still ready vampire hissed, his pure complexion of pale grey tightening in rage; an emotion he rarely felt enkindle within his chest long bearing the silent mark of vampiric borne asystole.

"...Ah." Silence returned once more to the corridor. The Prince of Darkness took to another round of imbibing the putrid liquid, before setting the wine aside with a certain air of confidence following him about as he stumbled off the corner, and towards the welcome, but decidedly unwelcoming, figure brandishing its holy blade towards him in warning. "I see I have touched a nerve. But you cannot deny that it would be foolish to intend my demise without troops, or adequate reinforcements, prepared." The Prince did not cease stumbling forwards, despite the sharp weapon edging closer and closer to touching his corpse-like flesh.

"And, pray tell, what exactly would I be here for if not for your head?"

Finally, the great vampire came up against the blade, permitting its sharp tip to press against his tender neck, with every carefully pronounced syllable threatening to nudge the blade into his throat, and in doing so no doubt plunging it straight through his cervical vertebrae.  
"The one thing man desires in equal measure to victory in war, and love in life." A pause, maybe to permit the wayward vampire opportunity to speak, or perhaps purely for dramatic flair. "Knowledge!"

*

Permit us, gentle reader, a brief moment to ponder the three innate desires of all men:  
Love, Victory, and Knowledge. All three are present in every being born of Adam's lineage, and all three are intrinsically linked to one another.

With Love comes Victory in life, and the Knowledge of satisfaction.  
Of course, Love is not inherently that of the love for another. For many, it is the love of God, or perhaps themselves. Even a love for what they are passionate for, such as their muse, or a certain ideal.

With Victory comes a Love for one's state in life, and the Knowledge of caution, lest they fall below their present accomplishments.  
Of course, Victory is not inherently that plucked from the bloodied spoils of war. For many, it is the Victory one feels in accomplishing great feats, or in defeating their own personal demons, or shortcomings.

With Knowledge comes a value of how rare Love truly is, and the will to achieve Victory.  
Of course, Knowledge is not inherently the variety found in dusty tomes guarded by zealous priests. For many, it is the Knowledge they acquire with wisdom, and patience, or for some it is the illusive form found in the silver trim of inspiration. A moment of discovery, and evolution of the mind, if you dare tread upon such dramatic clichés.

However, amidst all of these, it is Knowledge that stands out from its brethren, for Knowledge is born with the tools to achieving the other two in life tightly gripped in each hand, and yet it is delivered not from the loins of love, or victory, but from the sickly parents of rejection, and loss. Knowledge is the cinder-bound skeleton of razed towers that the remnants of humanity rebuild their castles with, growing ever taller with each war, and each failure.  
So it stands to reason that in life, and undeath, knowledge is worth more than gold. Knowledge is sharper than any sword, and mightier than any army, for with knowledge one can learn a blade is folly in the face of a mob, and that any militia is worth less than their boots when dashed to the seven winds by a mighty, terrible storm.  
So it stands to reason that any knowledge given freely must be either worthless, or of greater benefit to its tutor than those who seek to garner it.

*

Two vampires strolled through the humid, vibrant greenhouse, whose myriad of diverse flora had long since been left unpruned, and in doing so had outgrown their beds as they became tangled and wild in the face of abandonment. Many of the vined plants were thick as trees, and seemed to crawl through the cracked, steam-lined glass walls, as if desperate to taste the icy breath of the night. Much of the verdure's roots had dug into the broken stone slabs that lined the garden beds, curling down into the rich soil beneath, and drawing from the thick, red ichor that flows from the kitchens, which in turn has gifted it a propensity for carnivorous behaviour.  
That said, none dared to even lean towards the two night creatures, both adorned in magnificent coats lined in gold. The difference between their attire is that one was splattered with human blood, and his coat of crimson had clearly been carved from the wings of a long-extinct species last remnants, while the others was dirtied, and worn, despite its clearly ceremonial design (or perhaps funerary, seeing as its shade was that of ash and dark storm clouds).  
It was the younger vampire who broke the silence, with his hand now gently resting on the pommel of his silver sword, still prepared to slit his father's throat at any moment.  
"I do not see the point of this diversion. If it was the fruits of your labour you intend to show me, then I would hardly consider your castle garden warrant of my approval."

This aroused a brief chuckle from the Prince. "I am no boulevardier fop, if that is what you are implying. I simply desired to speak elsewhere."  
The silver-haired beauty sneered - He had little time for such luxuries, and despised extravagance. What difference does scenery make when it will all be soaked in blood before the night ends. "You suggest conversation, but I would rather you fulfill your earlier promise of information. Perhaps you might begin with explaining what purpose your war serves, if not for wanton bloodshed."

"Ahh, but what war is fought for any reason other than for blood?" Dracula smiled to himself, content to philosophize with himself in this empty castle any night. "But I digress, such a question requires another query in turn to answer it." His crimson gaze narrowed, glaring into the fallen knight's own ochre eyes. "Tell me, what separates man from monster?"

"Simple. I have studied the damned beast of which you speak for all of my life, and much of my undeath. The answer is clear as day - They are spawned of the fallen angel, Satan, and therefore inherently evil, and deserve only holy fire in the eyes of our Lord."

The two walked on into the seemingly never-ending underbrush, paying no heed to the animate vegetation that leaned away from the intruders, for fear of the Prince and the promise of death that came with his presence. "So you say, but many a creature molds its form from the clay of man. Vampires, Lycanthropes, the Undead; The list spans forever on. It is not entirely irrational to therefore suggest monsters are spawned of the human race, and not Satan. Would you dare to suggest it is the curse that is born of Satan, or that they are claimed by the fallen angel as soon as the mortals flesh and bone warp, and contort, into nightmares of the eve?"

"Then it is their actions that define them. The transition makes them yearn the flesh and blood of their once kin, and any semblance of humanity dies when they begin their accursed feasts."

"So if it is a beasthood born of action, then permit me to broach a hypothetical scenario to you." Alucard attempted to intervene before the Prince could continue, but was soon silenced as his father continued. His velvety black lips spread into a fanged snarl, but stayed their course nevertheless. "In a small cabin, isolated from the civilised world in the dark months of Winter, two freshly made orphans are perched over their malnourished father's corpse. If the children do not dine upon his flesh, then they are willfully embracing suicide, and therefore are doomed to the pits of Hell. If they do, then they are thusly labelled cannibals, and will find themselves within the dark inferno of the underworld all the same."

"These children are a metaphor for me, are they not?" the assassin asked, ducking slightly beneath an overgrown fern as the walked on through the warm mist of the greenhouse. Dracula laughed - an earnest laugh, causing him to slow for but a second, before his cold demeanor set in as the past threatened to encroach upon his mind once more.

"Your mother also saw through my musings with ease, though back then they lacked the wisdom that comes with age. Indeed, one cannot be considered sinful just by surviving in a sin-ridden world. It is the natural way of things."

"There is nothing natural about me." his son bit back with every word sodden in spite. He was, at least in his own eyes, an abomination. A slight upon the world of mankind, and an atrocity in the eyes of God. The Brotherhood had taught him many things, but a love for those afflicted with Vampirism was not among them.

"I argue otherwise. Without the creatures of the night, man would perish."  
Frustration blossomed within Alucard the more his father suggested these heresies. "Your madness truly knows no bounds. Without us, and our accursed ilk, and all those wretches of Hell, man would thrive, and unto the world an age of peace would be born."

"And your naiveté knows no bounds either." The Prince of Darkness snapped, fury teetering on the edge of his words like the crimson fire that flickered within his eyes, before being smothered up within the black cold that filled his soul. "The answer to my earlier question is that a monster can be controlled. They can learn to find solace in the collar that chokes them into submission. They seek to serve their Prince, or be crushed beneath his heel."

"You speak of tyranny as if it were not inherently evil."

"Perhaps from your perspective. But from where I sit, man is a fickle creature, and bucks against the bonds placed upon him by his betters. Even the cruelest of my realm are content with devouring their victims slowly, or to toy with them before committing the trapped soul to the afterlife. That is the extent of their 'evil'. But man will seek to enslave, and brutalise, and rape his brothers and sisters of this mortal realm, justifying it with lies like 'justice', 'honour', and 'love'. If not for those of my dominion, man would seek to bind his loved ones in chains and sell them for trinkets and pleasure, and when that dries up? He will find others to extort. Economy would become the vampirism you so desperately seek to extinguish, and commerce would be the blood drawn from the wheels of industry."  
"And you would deign to suggest a world wrought in fear and terror is preferable to progress?"

"It would be a more pure world. With horror gnawing at the mind of the common man, he will hold his family to his breast, praying to God for their safety, all the while secretly hoping that he is the one to survive when they do not." The two of them stopped at a clearing. Moss covered benches suggested this was once a place of respite for the Bernhards, perhaps a place where they might drink tea, and eat cakes, but now it was abandoned, and left to the vines that covered the stone walkways, and the fungi that produced a faint blue glow in the dull moonlight.

"But enough of that. You came here to kill me, did you not?"

"The thought of it has not left my mind this entire time." The young vampire gripped his blade tightly, prepared to plunge it deep in the Prince's heart at a moment's notice.

"Ahh... The determination of the Belmont bloodline. How quaint." The Dragon smiled to himself, reminded of his own love for combat that burned within his own breast. How it writhed with glee at the prospect of expunging the name 'Belmont' from all of history. "However, the only way you might have slain your Prince is with assassination (and bear in mind that such a feat would have only the slimmest of chances for success), for the last time you attempted my execution you were better prepared, better armed, and fueled with the fires of undiluted rage. As such, I offer you this alternative - A game."

"You jest."

"I despise satire. You recall the war games the Brotherhood monks taught you? Ironically, the daughters of great vampires share these games, albeit with modified rules. I have joined the two together, and offer you this bargain; You seek knowledge, and with victory you shall have it. For every piece of mine you claim I shall answer one question of your choosing, and should you defeat me I will prostrate myself before you to be pinned to a cliff, crucified, with my heart and head hanging by my feet for the morning sun to burn away."

The prospect sounded fanciful at best, and dangerous at worst. The many years of dealing with the playful connivings of witches and warlocks had left Trevor Belmont cautious of any deal a creature of the night might present. "And should I lose a piece?"

"Then I shall claim a year of your life in servitude to me as my pupil. This amount will only be taxed upon should I win." A catch, at last, but not without the odds stacked in Alucard's favor. This suggested that the Prince of Darkness was either ostentatiously assured of his own victory, or far more egomaniacal than initially diagnosed. Both were incredibly plausible.

"Then I promise you, here and now, that you shall brave the blinding light of God come the morrow sun, after I have prized every secret from your lifeless husk."


	4. Chapter Three: Contest of Piacularity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part One of Two

Chapter Three:  
Contest of Piacularity - Part One

Alucard's voice bid the animate plants to pull free their roots from the earth, as if parade knights ready for the command of their lieutenant, upturning the moist sediment and stonework to disarray the floor. From the freshly revealed earth coiling vines slowly twisted up in grisly, agonized service for their Prince.  
Each inch they twisted free of the ground seemed to cause the garden great torment; doubly so when these fibrous creepers began to form a stand born of pain, with small pebbles being forced and crushed into place to form a perfectly smooth table-top that divided into 65 rough sections of obsidian, both red and black, that melted as if they were ice and not stone, into neat squares for their lords pleasure. Or, was it that even the stone feared the Dragon and bent to his will?  
The lively vines grew stiff, and pale, before yet more were drawn out between the dislodged brickwork to form elegant thrones of vine and torment in equal parts. The telltale mark of cursed blood trickled from the inner-workings of the wood, and slinked back into the earth shyly as its exceptionally palatable scent muddied the petrichorial aroma of the room.

  
The stage was set, and the two vampires took their place opposite one another.  
"Tell me, 'Prince of Darkness', did the Brotherhood not teach grandeur in honour of man, and not of the Lord, is a sin? Or do you simply not care?"  
"If your God had his say, I firmly doubt he would approve of armour forged of solid gold in his 'honour', let alone cathedrals built upon the backs of starving serfs that know no better."  
"And you would sooner see those bones prized from their lifeless husks to line the stained glass of your own, personal 'cathedral'?"  
"You have your father's enthusiasm, boy, but not his patience. You must wait for the game to start before you can begin demanding answers."

  
The young vampire huffed indignantly, but resigned his contempt for the game, and the game alone. The board, at first barren, was soon slowly filled with pieces that dribbled up from the cracks of the board to form masterfully sculpted pieces, setting the two armies opposed to one another. On the Dragon's side his force was that of a stone Alucard had not seen in his living days, but given its glossy shine and unmistakable crimson tone he could only assume was somehow solidified blood, polished, and lined with pure gold.  
The forces of the prince were monstrous, featuring beasts of the night so horrific that he could only imagine they were sired of his father's memory, and not the hand of any sane artisan.  
Meanwhile, his own resembled the holy knights of the Brotherhood, who appeared to be born of perfectly smooth, lustrous marble and silver. The irony was not lost on him, as he gingerly lifted one of the knights with a wince as the holy metal stung him, yet all the burning in the world heralded less agony than knowing that even God held no mercy, nor love, in His breast for the pale Belmont.

For each of his pieces, the declared Prince of all monsters upon Earth held equally powerful counterparts. The eight loyal Brotherhood warriors in shining armour were opposed by skeleton warriors brandishing cruel blades and roughly hewn wooden shields.  
For his two masterfully crafted ballistae there was a duo of hulking behemoths of spirit possessed armour resembling those that the long-dead Trevor Belmont had torn apart in his hopeless quest for Dracula's head many years ago.  
Opposite the wicked, winged vampires of feather and cruelty, standing tall with their mighty claymores, stood equally determined Holy knights of the Brotherhood with their combat crosses, and furrowed brows promising a life of hardship devoid of thanks, or respite.

Both Trevor and Gabriel Belmont knew that life better than the almost dream-like fantasy they drifted through in this wicked undeath.

Further in, comprising the inner circle of each army, were the mystical holy men of each side. Namely, the sickly, undead summoning necromancers with their mummified hides covered in tattered stone robes, and the battle-prepared, holy war-clerics, with armour shining beneath their marble hoods.  
And finally, the mighty and the meek of each side. For Dracula's royalty it would seem he trusted his defence to that of the mighty Dark knight of yore, whose hellish stare was known to turn the will of men to cinder and ash. Fittingly, his chosen idol was that of fear and tyranny: The Dragon, bearing its sharp teeth and cruel talons to Alucard. Meanwhile, the young vampire bore a mighty holy paladin clad in metal cast over the bones of dead angels, and a white wolf that mimicked the one carefully carven into the rosemary of oak he kept hidden inside his coat.

  
The nightwalker placed his holy knight back upon the board, and drew his singed fingertips away to eye down two stationary armies doomed to slaughter one another like dogs. Though the stakes were even, a nagging fear in the back of his mind told him that nothing could be further from the truth. "If you are so very set on seeing my heart pierced this night-" "I am." The Princeling of all vampires bit in, eager to be done with this whole sordid affair before the sun rose.  
"Then I implore you, please, take the first move."

  
*

  
The young Belmont slid the first of his army across the board, and the game began.  
It took eight turns for the two men to properly position their troops, with the red leather-clad Prince forming a castle in the centre of the board, dominating the space, while Alucard prepared his men for an attack on the East side of the Castle. There was a brief moment of respite, and then as the Prince set his final blood-red piece in place? The Holy army threw itself upon the walls like ocean waves against a ragged cliff during a storm.

Jean Earl, a holy man, born a peasant in the sunflower fields just east of what they referred to there as "The Land of Curses", rolled beneath the rapidly closing door. It had been weeks since his detachment had been directed to this cobweb shrouded chapel, set at the base of the great castle, and yet as soon as their forces had clattered with the undead they had been decimated. Ahead of him, in the winding dark of the catacomb tunnels, a skeleton lunged forward. Grit and determination drove him towards the soulless shell, and using his iron shield he shattered the long-dead soldier's spine, before throwing his fully armoured weight into it, sending bone and dried flesh scattering across the mossy floor.

The Red pawn fell to the board with a clunk, soon replaced with its equal foe. The young vampire wasted no time with his question. "Tell me, for the sake of curiosity, to what purpose did you decide to live in this freezing cesspool of misery?"  
The Prince liked that, making sure to take note of such a phrase. "Perhaps that itself is what has drawn me to the Bernhard family castle? Hah." his tone was dry, and devoid of any real joy. "Or maybe a sense of nostalgia for times long past?"  
"You did not answer my question, father." The mood, it seemed, was determined to remain sour.  
"Then allow me to be blunt; I chose this location so that I would be isolated, and alone, however, it would seem such a life is not for a Prince, for what is a Prince without his Princedom? Now, I believe it is my turn..."

The foolhardy lordling stumbled forward, blood soaking his Brotherhood tunic, with his mace in hand and delirium coursing through his veins. If only he could reach that altar he might be free of this accursed place, for the Lord provides. "The Lord is my shelter in the wind. The Lord is my fire in the Winter. The Lord-!" He lost his footing on the polished red floor, and slipped to his knees with a bitter curse on his lips, only to discover the floor was, in fact, white marble, soaked in a thick inch of blood. Horror soon replaced his hope. His vision was gently lifted up from his rippling reflection with sharp fingernails, and in the throes of his quaking terror, he came face to face with a beautiful man of pale skin and dark feathers, bearing a sharp grin that promised every millilitre of his blood would be sucked from his wretched body. The majestic being spoke not a word, rather, it only grinned wider as it dug those nails into the man's throat, muffling his gargled squeals before tossing his still squirming body into the pews with a loud crash.

The young vampire glared at the board and his knocked over pawn, but said nothing. His revenge immediately followed suit (for patience was not one of his strongest aspects), as...

The blessed priest stood over the smouldering bones, much like the one all those years back that had terrorised the Köhhler family residence, still shaking despite holding another flask of Holy water readily in hand. The Good Book had spoke of the power of the Lord before, but he had rarely beheld it himself. Such things were above his profession, as was the call of the Brotherhood, yet still he answered the request with enamoured avidity. He took a breath, before looking back upon the contingent of shocked knights behind him, then with a rallying cry they charged into the abandoned town of Wygol with reinvigorated faith filling their hearts to near bursting.

..The pawn fell over, with the bishop in place. "Do you not fear God?" The Prince considered this for a moment, before leaning back in his chair with a sneer plastered across his handsome, whiskered face. "Do you fear a rabid dog when you bear a whip in hand? The quest of Gabriel Belmont would have been for naught if God had any power over this world beyond minor blessings and pathetic trinkets. There is a reason why I am immortal, and it is not born solely from my accursed blood."  
The reanimated Trevor Belmont set his dark, yet captivating, ochre eyes upon his father, before leaning back with a pout spread across his unnaturally beautiful face. It would seem his question would have to wait. The Prince shifted his Black Knight before the Cleric, and Alucard took moment to pause, before condemning the piece to its fate. He did not intend to lose this game, and time spent on the defensive would be time spent losing pieces.

The company of gilded knights, lead by one Ser Tybalt de Launcenfroide, ducal guardian of his name, came to a halt atop the hill, overlooking the long abandoned village encrusted in snow beneath the bright full moon. The stench of death hung about the eerily quiet place, before a piercing shriek echoed across the fields, tearing this illusion to shreds within seconds. Within the town square, a bloodied priest ran, throwing off battered pieces of steel in his mad attempt to flee before a behemoth of dark armour and raw hatred burst free of the ruined parish, and landed spiked sabaton-first upon the small man with a thud Tybalt felt even outside the town. Once content crows fled their branches in mad panic, squawking into the pale moonlit even as fear crept along the royal bastard's spine like a spider, poised to bite, as the mammoth, onyx clad champion slowly trudged back behind the ruined townhouses, promising that he would be waiting for the company of men this night of their holy quest.

*

  
Should he lose this game, Alucard mused to himself, he would not be content to subserviate himself to this vile Prince willingly, and would die before spending even a moment in acquiescence to Dracula. Should he lose, then he would thrust his blade deep into the Prince of Vampires still heart all the same, and claim a victory even without this hellspawn's 'permission'. This was, for the time being, simply a matter of drawing out as many answers as he could, before the pieces were cast to the floor in a flurry of violence. It was his turn, and he immediately mobilised his Knight piece.

The corpse, coated in rags, crawled back across the red dust of the plains, desperately trying to get away from the bloodied and tired high knight, donned in red leather armour denoting his place in the Brotherhood. "What is it you want?" it whined, bartering to continue its miserable existence. "Is it power? Wealth? Status?! I...I could make you a king! The greatest king there ever was!" its crooked neck came against the sand worn wall of a long-abandoned keep, signalling the end of its pathetic escape attempt. "The only thing I desire..." the man began, blonde beard matted in spit and sweat, with his dulled whip in hand. "...Is for filth such as you to face oblivion." He drew his whip high into the air, and with a loud crack, brought it down with such furious vengeance that the dried ground cracked beneath his rage.

"Then why are you immortal?" The question burst free of Alucard's lips as soon as the unholy piece fell, immediately replaced with his knight.  
"Now that is the right question. One found echoing within my very soul when crying up to God for His embrace, and later when pounding upon the charred gates of Hell. The answer is ... surprisingly simple. The truth is both your God and Satan fear me, and deny me residence within their kingdoms."  
"What you speak of is heresy. God does not fear anyone."  
The elder Belmont chuckled, gently lifting his Dark Knight up, before setting it behind his castle walls. "So I have been told, and yet He has not shown me retribution nor penance for my sins. He knows I am a worthy contender, and is content to let me rot on this miserable rock." Alucard quickly took to his turn, not daring to face his father's heresies head on, instead sending one of his warriors to their death. The Prince took this as a worthy offering.

The squadron of tired men, little more than farmers given steel plate and inadequate training, drew to a halt, resulting in the clamouring of steel plate upon steel plate, for before them lay a pit of bones the width of a full crop of wheat, and doubly long, reaching a good 10 metres, illuminated by sets of flickering candles upon a chandelier smothered in thick cobwebs. "Do you fear death already, ye of little faith?" the brave Captain of the squad bellowed, before jumping waist deep into the revolting muck of dusty flesh and tattered rags. "Heaven awaits us all!" another man shouted, then another, as all but one man leapt into the pit. Only the young veteran, Jean, freshly reunited with his Brothers, held back, for he saw the bones begin to stir, and barely had opportunity to scream before his brothers filled the air with their own.

  
The pieces shifted.

  
A mighty bolt pierced the walls of the dark castle, flooding the pit with rubble and dust, sending bones and gory metal flying across the walls, and painting them in splashes of blood red. Only the man heralding from the sunflower fields remained, standing over the ruins of his fellow men, and the foes that shared their state of unlife with them moments before returning to the cold embrace of stillness. Beyond the castle walls, a duke-to-be of well-deserved repute beckoned to his troops for another volley, before turning his attention once more to the dark towers of torment, and hatred.

Content with his recent victory, Alucard gingerly weighed the defeated red skeleton in his hand, admiring the beauty and skill it must have taken to create it. Though his father was, or, more aptly had been, a man of war and bloodshed who devoted years of his life away from his wife, it would seem the man who had filled his husk was one of connoisseurial tendencies. A warlord atop a throne of gold and jewels, which in truth was a far too generous depiction of the Prince of Darkness.  
"Tell me, 'Prince'," the petulant Belmont did not permit even a modicum of respect when spitting that word at his father. "Was it love, or sheer malice, that drove you to murder my mother?"


	5. Chapter Three: Contest of Piacularity - Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two of two

Chapter Three: Contest of Piacularity - Part Two

The inferno of Hell paled in comparison to the maelström of hate and rage that bloomed within Dracula's chest, evident by the harsh scowl that spread across his face like wildfire. "Do not speak of that night as if you bear memories of her death!" he roared with such ferocity that the very life of the garden seemed to wither and wilt before his white-hot rage. "You say I killed her, you accuse me thusly, and yet your reason is borne of the measly scraps of truth the Brotherhood has spoon-fed you. It was they who knew of my ascension to this near-deific status of undeath before I slew the first of the Lords of Shadow, it was they who had you stolen away without a trace for your father to find, and it was they who paved the way for Zobek's near victory over Heaven, Hell and this mortal realm!" the elder vampire's sharp nails dug into the sickly vine-throne's armguards, his knuckles white from the force before glowing cinders began to drift free of his grip.

"They wanted their quest, their hero, their story! They knew the only way I would be driven to such hatred and malice was with her death! They did not stop Zobek from binding my will to his iniquity! They may as well have sanctioned her death and burned her before a cheering crowd!" His fury blossomed into a fire that engulfed his hands, charring the creaking wood, but he did not stop.

"You do not know what it is like to awaken in the dead of night, covered in sweat and surrounded by the echoes of your screams as you recall, piece by piece, how you hunted her through the woods. Do you remember how she begged for mercy? For her beloved Gabriel to stop this madness?" The dragon faltered, now fully risen from his chair with a ferocious blaze enveloping his arms, before finally being snuffed out as he fell, drained, back upon the throne.

"It is my turn, is it not? We have a match to attend to, and I grow weary of this particular query."

Though his mood was, clearly, darker than the near abyssal stretches on unlit hallways within his castle, he kept it to himself, despite how obviously rattled his son had been from this fiery outburst. The Prince steadily lifted a piece up, and slowly knocked over a unit of his sons army.

 

Screams filled the hallway as men bolted from the conflict, eyes wide with panic as the shrieking bodies of their comrades were thrown into furniture and statues with reckless abandon. The mighty dark knight, or at least, this worthy recreation of the creature of yore, burned with an intense savagery that was met in equal measure only with its rampant destruction.

Brimstone and liquid fire poured from every joint in its blackened plate, pooling across the burning carpet as it bellowed with each vicious swing of its colossal blade. Men were torn asunder, before being stomped into paste. Though many fled, few managed to reach the safety of the labyrinthian passages before being yanked up by the giant, and crushed within their panoply as if it were made of tin. The great beast screamed up at the ceiling once more, soaked in sizzling blood and burning tar, yet still, the malice in its heart was not quenched.

Rather, it fed on the bloodshed.

 

"If," the cautious pale princeling began, constantly watching his father lest he tread upon the bear's paws once more, and face his direct wrath. "What you say is true," though he did not lean away from the Prince, nor avert his gaze, his tone wavered just enough to betray his fear. Alucard made his move. "Then why have you not seen to their demise first-hand?"

 

The second-wave force of Ser Tybalt pushed through the great doors, swords, and spears, and all manner of well-funded weaponry sharpened and clenched in hand, as they stepped over the cracked and broken bones of the undead that had, until very recently, stood guard before the foyer. The great hall was dimly lit, and stank of death, with the distinct aroma of ash and fire lingering on the wind. Despite the rapid beat of their hearts at the sight of freshly mangled corpses dangling from all surfaces, they pressed on, into the great castle.

 

The semi-aristocratic vampire ran his ringed fingers through his long, curling locks, thinking for several moments before answering. "Those of which you speak are kin to the snake-like monstrosities from children's fables. With every fraction of their faction decimated, two more spring forth from the ruins, with the seed of either faith, or promises of power, fueling their renewed vigor. Though my forces razed their strongholds time and time again, the true culprits hide in the dirt and muck of yet unknown places." The prince plucked a piece from the board, and knocked one of his sons off the table, letting the stone shatter upon the cold floor.

 

The armoured priest hailing from Valachia, first of his family and yet stricken even from that, courtesy of a wicked Duchess and her callous heart, stumbled back, clutching the arrow shafts in his shoulder as he lurched into a dining room. At first, he took respite in the familiar dishes of roasted meat and gazpacho, but soon his relief turned to horror when he saw the meat yet breathed, for set out like a feast were the bleeding and burned bodies of his fellow Brotherhood knights, dumped on the tables and dripping into overflowing bowls of blood. A cold chill crawled down his spine as he heard the beat of heavy leather wings, speeding towards him. Too terrified to move, to even scream, all he could do was tremble in place, before his mind was condemned to the void.

 

"For now, I will bide my time, for when they make an attempt on my life (and this, I promise you, they are assured to do) I will personally see to it that they are hung from their entrails, and that their exposed organs will be soaked in salt and oil, guaranteeing the last moments of their miserable lives are spent in the most excruciating pain imaginable." The young Belmont nodded - at the very least he could understand the Prince's frustration at this situation, and while he did not share his heretical desire to disembowel the holy order's most pious leaders, Alucard certainly approved of the intended death of all Necromancers, and their wicked trade.

"You speak of time, and yet it took ten winters after my birth for Dracula to begin his reign of cruelty. Do you intend to have me believe you capable of subtle warfare, or simply childish procrastination?"

 

Battered and bruised, the young Terryn, and his senior from the sunflower fields, cautiously edged down the hallway with their dulled morningstars clutched firmly within what remained of their gauntlets. The candles flickered in the dark, threatening to go out, as they stepped inch by inch towards the open door to their right. The two men exchanged a look of caution, before steeling themselves. It was Terryn who nervously entered first. The ear-raking scream that burst free of the room's berth did not drive the peasant-warrior from the scene, instead, Jean leapt after his fellow comrade, with broken shield and dinted mace in hand. Whatever wretch awaited him in the room would be yet another scar upon his fragile mind from this seemingly never-ending night.

 

"Truthfully, I sought to satisfy my fury first and foremost, before I found direction and even began mustering my forces. In my rage, I tore this castle down time and time again, and yet, from the dusty debris, towers always rose up with the next night. I rebelled against the role fate had cast me, until even I surrendered to it. It was ... an inevitability. After that, there was perhaps two, or maybe three, years I spent alone in the highest room of the tallest tower within the Bernhard castle." His son sneered at that, growing bolder once more. "How romantic."

"Your sarcasm is duly noted. There were many nights where I found myself weakly clawing at the icy formations that grew upon my cold flesh, and crying to God for forgiveness. It was within that dark abode I sacrificed the one thing that bound me to pain, and suffering, upon the altar of frost." Alucard wasted no time with his follow-up. "And what was that, exactly?"

Dracula toyed with the word, so foreign a concept to him now, before letting it loose with the sibilation of unmistakable disdain. "My humanity."

 

The siegemaster, surrounded by his fellow ballista operators, shook his head in dismay before the smoking wreckage of the Launcenfroide company heavy weapon. How many hours had he spent calibrating the mechanisms, and weighing each individual bolt? Now it was marred in ash, and gore, from the still twitching remains of those that were thrust into the dark castle on foot, and promptly expelled in a well-aimed volley from some unseen catapult. The unmistakable red locks of Ser Tybalt himself hung over a face so warped in extreme fear that it could barely be considered human.

Meanwhile, the battle-weary Jean Earl collapsed over the bloodsucker's disintegrating corpse, gasping for his breath after yet another tiring fight. Every muscle in his body screamed for respite from this constant onslaught. For a time he considered giving in to sleep, but instead took to his feet once more - For God, and for his own continued survival.

His faithful shield, of which had cost him more than a summer's worth of grain rations, was little more than a dented handle by now, and his mace was pitiful to say the least. Beneath his feet lay the faintly luminescent blade of the monstrosity he had just slain. It was not what he had trained to use, but it would do, as he cast his broken tools of the trade aside and lifted the surprisingly light weapon from the ashen remains. This night would end. It had to.

 

"Why wage this war at all? Why not take to your isolation and leave the world of man in peace?" Silence filled the room. No answer was given. The young night-walker paused, looking at the piece he had shifted.

The warrior had replaced a vampire knight at the opposite end of the board, true enough, but what struck Alucard so suddenly was that unbeknownst to him the pawn had changed, for now the silver of its attire had been replaced with gold, shining in the blue light of night, like an (exceedingly impractical, and romanticised) knight from a fairy-tale.

Alucard shot his father a wicked glare, then back at the figure. "What is this? A metaphor? That man only finds himself in the dark of war? Do you really expect me to be impressed with such vapid analogies?" Dracula did not answer this either. The younger Belmont hissed in frustration, at first, before drawing quiet as his father moved his black knight aside to present his idol to the pawns line of sight.

"Forgive me, son, but I tire of these questions. If you are to defeat me, then please;" he motioned to the board, and the opportunity presented with the open path. His tone was dry, and made no effort of hiding his boredom. "Make do with it."

"Not before you answer one last question." The ashen-haired boy drew his piece directly before the dragon, holding it in place as he leaned forward. The question had hung on his blackened lips since arriving, and would wait no longer.

"What...What was mother like?"

*

 

There was some resistance at first, but within moments the grandeur, and the power, of the Dragon melted away, and in that moment Alucard could not help but think his father looked so very, very tired. "Marie was ... Pure. She was kind, and gentle, and sincere. I doubt the Brotherhood spoke of her as anything other than an accessory to my rise. We lived just beyond the edge of what is now known as Aljiba, in a modest hut within the woods. She had always dreamed of getting away from the cities, and the bindings of her family's merchant lineage. She remained faithful, despite the long treks I would find myself undertaking for the church. Excluding, of course, the concealment of my only son."  
Gabriel Belmont's crimson eyes drifted up to the fogged ceiling, watching the flickering night stars beyond the warped glass.

"When I reappeared before her I would always be the same: bloodied, broken, and afflicted with waking nightmares that crept on the edges of my vision. Fighting demons and monstrosities plucked from my darkest nightmares was taxing to such a degree that I would fall to her knees, sobbing, when I returned."

"I would be tired, and weak, and yet every time I came to her she would nurse me, and dress me, and feed me when I was barely strong enough to collect kindling in the bright of day. She was my hearth, my fire, and when she was ... gone, I was hollow. Empty. The only purpose I could cling desperately to was to press into the cursed lands, hoping against all reason that I could still save her. There were times I swore I saw her spirit, and her smile, and feel her warm embrace. I needed ... I wanted to see her so desperately that I could not admit her death, even when I cried up to heaven for her return." The weak form of Gabriel Belmont was soon swallowed up by the façade of Dracula, pushed to the back of his mind as his dry lips split into a sharp grin. "But those are the musings of a dead man, are they not? Now, I believe it is time we end this farce, don't you?"

"I could not agree more." And with that, Alucard slid his chosen hero across the threshold of its square, where it clunk against the dragon. The dragon did not budge. Again, the fledgling vampire pressed against it, but the monster remained stalwart in its position.

 

The greenhouse door burst open, revealing a ragged champion brandishing a long, wicked blade in hand. What little of his armour that continued to hang to the muddied, padded Brotherhood gambeson was dented, and splattered in many shades of red. He stank of blood, and fear, and sweat, and piss. His beard was matted with bile, and his left eye was too swollen to open. "What trickery is this?" The younger Belmont barked, who quickly found he was bound to his chair in vines so thick that even his vampiric strength proved powerless beneath them.

"You cannot kill the Dragon, Alucard. So long as Heaven and Hell deny me entry, the Dragon will always remain. It is the one constant in this world. Besides, do you really think I would be satisfied with just a simple game?" The Prince of Darkness prized himself from his throne, leisurely walking towards the quaking peasant, who held his newly acquired sword up before the terrifying figure.

"Stay back!" he shouted, trembling like a dog left in a storm. He did not want this - not this quest, nor this battle, or even the prospective honour that might be gleaned from cutting down the great Dracula. He just wanted to go home. He wanted to lie in the hot glow of Summer within the sunflower fields, and drink warm mead with his beloved as the glowflies drifted lazily through the warm night air.

"You cannot kill me, little knight." The dark lord approached further still, however, unlike his earlier encounter with Alucard, he thrust himself upon the sharp blade, much to the young holy man's terror. A rasping groan escaped the ebony-haired royal, drawn out further yet as he plunged his torso down to the hilt of the blade with a sickening thud.  
"I'm already dead."  
The undead remains of Trevor Belmont screamed as the lonesome knight wailed in agony with sharp, white fangs piercing his filthy neck. He squirmed to be free of his bindings, but they dragged him down into the earth. No matter how much he struggled, and fought back, he was not able to break free, and the last thing he beheld before being swallowed entirely beneath the loose sediment was the drained corpse of Jean Earl falling to the floor, staring blankly across a puddle of his own blood.


	6. Entr'acte

Entr'acte

Loose dirt shifted over the tight muscular design of our thwarted assassin's exposed, pale chest, as the undead remains of Trevor Belmont struggled against their fibrous bindings. He knew not where he was being dragged to, only that the soil rushing by was damp, and cold, and from the thick scent that made his mouth water? Tainted with the run-off blood from the Bernhard castle.

As his resistance escalated, so too did the number of vines that wrapped around his arms, and legs, and waist. Truthfully, any handle they could keep themselves entwined about was satisfactory, and eagerly sought after in the ever-shifting cold, pressing dark beneath the surface.

His vampiric vision was useless here, for there was no room to even see let alone curse into as he was yanked about into all manner of humiliating positions with each directional change the overgrown flora pulled him through (no doubt to spare the young Belmont from buried stones and other hard objects that would prove most unpleasant should the sanguisuge collide with them).

The aforementioned creepers struggled with the petulant vampires futile resistance, before finally finding a satisfactory grip that just so happened to be around its throat, provoking him to gasp for air instinctively.

Though his supernaturally locomoted blood no longer required oxygen to travel about his body, the tendril's tight hold around his smooth neck denied his brain access to desperately needed fresh blood, making his head spin, and his soft lips go numb. Through the haze of his cloudy mind, Alucard found himself focusing primarily upon the prehensile appendages that slithered against the more sensitive, and erogenous areas of his long untouched body.

Rough, earthy limbs dragged over his hard pectorals, and defined abdominals, as the weed travelled south to find decent fixture upon his still weakly writhing figure.

The phytoidal tentacles tentatively pressed ever south along his cool skin; rolling along his contoured hips, down against his defined Adonis' belt, and around the weak portions of Alucard's thighs in such a way that when they were tugged upon he immediately pressed his firm legs together with a childish hiss, for fear of his legs spreading like those of his wife on their wedding night.

But then, was that truly so bad, and better yet? Who was to know?

There were no souls beneath the earth - not this deep anyway - just the fledgling vampire, and the hot ache of arousal boiling within his deathly pale body. Alucard's lack of moral judgement soon won over his rapidly declining rationality, for after all; bound hands are the Devil's favourite plaything.

He soon (with a deep sense of chagrin flooding his dormant heart) began to weakly press the soft, yet rapidly stiffening length of his manhood against the rough bindings that continuously twisted around his misguided flesh. Just a little at first, but gradually he pushed harder and harder the more his membrum virile followed suit.

For every inch he writhed the tighter he was restrained, and in turn the greater his unrighteous need became, ergo the writhing which made the roots further inclined to find additional places on his person to wrap about, and of those many joined their kin around his throat with enthusiasm. Such gusto was given little notice in the face of his immediate throbbing "dilemma", until one of the more girthier vines slid up between his taut cheeks, and throttled him in such a way that his vision turned pure white. Dazed, and very disoriented, a sense of surprise overcame him (much to his unexpected joy) as this cruel agitator was found inadvertently rubbing up against places completely untouched. And yet they thrilled him in such a manner that he was powerless to prevent the miserable moan of raw passion escaping between tightly grit fangs.

The vines' stranglehold were blissfully tight. With his consciousness rapidly fading, the devout hunter set to rocking his hips back and forth in a desperate bid to reach climax before losing himself to the encroaching dark of sleep. The unmistakable, hot, and sticky trickle of precum leaking from his twitching cock was more than adequate assistance in his struggle, and in tandem with the increased pressure pushing against his chaste asshole, he could feel his guilty objective was but a breath away. The pressure around his airway tightened, causing his limbs to fall numb and the hope of release to slip beyond his shaking reach, despite how fervently he grinded back upon the plant in such a way that it threatened at any moment to tear through his tight pants, along with his remaining virginity (which, in his currently lust-addled mind, was a concept worthy of him falling to his knees and begging for - that is to say, if he were not so incapable of doing either in his current predicament).

 

Alucard needed this. Of all things in his unlife, this one was second only to his father's death, though far more important at this incredibly pressing moment. He cared not for his well being, nor how pathetic he looked shivering beneath the ever-shifting touch of the tendrils, with his dick fully erect, and aching, and constantly leaking into his sticky, soaked undergarments, whilst his tight rim twitched in tandem with Alucard's shameful anticipation of some deep, immoral bliss that lingered just beyond the shores of his consciousness, before even that faded. The vampire could barely keep his mind focused, or his thrusts constant, until even those petered out with the last remnants of all feeling before sleep swallowed both him and any hope of reaching orgasm.


	7. Chapter Four: Confinement; Perpetually-so.

Chapter Four

Confinement; Perpetually-so.

 

Trevor Belmont raised his head to the blue sky as the warm summer air flowed through his supple, messy brown hair. His soft hands, free from the calloused marks born of rough pommels and unsoftened leather, clung tightly to the work-horse's mane as it galloped across the grassy field, while laughter rolled earnestly from his care-free grin.

The smell of the forest hung about the field as he drew to a trot, and then a stop, as he surveyed the ripe fields of barley he often played within, now left abandoned in favour of plentiful game, and his mother's more than fruitful garden. Her call echoed out across the field, and Trevor shouted back, compliment with an eager wave, before directing the mare back towards the cool shade of home.

As the young boy brought the horse back to a comfortable canter, he rode past a very startled looking figure that he did not see (or perhaps could not see) and the shocked gaze of the stranger in a personally strange land followed him in turn, with his fanged mouth agape in confusion. His brushed silver locks swayed beneath the warm sun's gentle kiss, gently tickling the washed, and perfumed skin of his angular face. Every inch of his svelte form had been scrubbed clean - inside and out - leaving him feeling defiled, and dolled up. Like a pretty plaything, he was adorned in a less rugged, less muddied, and certainly far less armoured coat, with a ruffled cravat and what was undoubtedly a tailored vest hugging his taut, tight waist. In his living years, such attire was unfit for combat, and abandoned in favour of protective coats made for long, muddy treks. The decaled leggings of silk and velvet he found his defined hips tightly compressed within would have no hope of surviving even a day of heavy walking, let alone strenuous labour.

The boy continued down the hill, away from the unseen man, who found himself unable to pry his gaze from the young reflection, who was plucked from the horse by a mother he never truly knew, shortly before being embraced in a hug that never could have happened.

"What foul trickery is this?" he muttered under his breath, still unable to comprehend what exactly was happening, or why he was privy to it. It was the deep, yet distinctly mellifluent tone of his father that answered him. "There is no trickery here, Alucard. This is exactly what it seems; a young boy, and his home. They live here." Alucard turned about, immediately shooting a hateful glare in the voice's origin, which as predicted, came from the Prince of Darkness himself. Though this mighty leader bore none of his power here, rather he was hunched over in the shadow of a leafy tree. Like a wounded stag, resting from the coming wolves.

"And where, exactly, is here? This place..." the princeling lifted his cracked, and ashen white hand up in the impossible sunlight, gently grasping at the now alien thing as if it might dissolve, like mist. "...This place is an illusion, is it not?" His yellow eyes slipped back to his father, who seemed not as a great warrior, but a tired monster. A thing most horrific, certainly, for the dark shifted around him, and his cloak seemed to mingle with the shadows and twist into the crooked windings of the small oak. But he was tired. So very tired, barely able to keep his crimson gaze centered upon the distant family with longing burning deep within him.

"Perhaps to you. This world is as real as our own, and yet it is slave entirely to emotion, and memory, rather than the laws of physics and time. Logic bears little force within my 'castle'." The sunlight began to fade, and Alucard desperately looked back at the loving family, which now bore a tall man with short, curling locks gently spinning about with his son laughing as he flailed in the air, before the entire family was swallowed up by the disintegrating world, and the cold stone walls of reality lurched free of the Belmont apparitions and their dream-like world.

"I have never seen such creations in all my life. No illusion can bear such..." The holy undead looked down at his still raised hand, before clenching it into a rough fist. "What devilry caused you to show me such foul visages?" Dracula still remained upon the floor, though now the only thing propping him up was a knocked over table set in a thick layer of dust, much like the many other disarrayed, and occasionally dismantled, furnishings. "This was not something I willed, Alucard. This is the will of my castle." "You mean the Bernhard family home."

Dracula smiled - filled with a pride that only barely concealed the firm grip of depression that hung upon his soul like a festering parasite. "No. This is my 'castle' - my world, if you will. If the late Walter Bernhard was to create a beast of stone and chaos that drew from its ruler, then mine would be one of mist and blood that drained me instead. So long as I fuel this never-ending dream, the Bernhard family castle will not."

Alucard cared not for his father's ramblings, and instead reached for his holy blade. One that, it seemed, was no longer there. The assassin cursed whatever foul knave had denied him his weapon, and his well-worn garments instead of these gilded trappings. It mattered not, for even if he seemed declawed, he still possessed the trained body of a vampire-killer; a weapon in all regards. There was no quip, no quick snap, instead, Alucard lunged at the miserable figure with his sharp nails extended, going straight for Dracula's chest. Death would bear itself to this wretch, and the world would be free of his tyranny!

This attempt would fall short, much like the pale nightwalker, who forthright found himself writhing upon the floor in agony, barely a foot shy of his target.

 

Amidst the younger Belmont's howling, the Prince of Darkness spoke, still blankly staring forward from his position at the empty wall, as if just beneath the paint lay some beautiful sight that his son did not (or cared not to) see.

"The burning sensation you feel is the manifestation of my will. You have entered my world, and in turn, it has entered you. Your blood is, ironically enough, now my blood. Or better yet," he cast his crimson gaze upon the panting, tear-soaked face of his son, who responded with a hate-filled glare of such intensity that only a Belmont could manage it.

"It is my property."

"And what," the younger vampire spat the aforementioned, accursed blood upon the dusty floor, courtesy of his sharp fangs puncturing his delicate tongue before he slowly rose to his feet upon shaky legs. "Does that make me? The plaything of Prince Dracula? His pet?"

Dracula chuckled. He had never had a pet before - the idea seemed too novel for him, though now... Surely a vampire might make excellent company to one as eternal as he? The Prince of the Night turned away from whatever sights he might bear witness to ahead, and instead lay back against the worn furniture with a smile split across his moustached lips, as he was content to relax before rising from this spot. "Perhaps from your perspective. So long as you remain within my domain, you will be unable to attack me, or even flee without my express permission. Such notions will, I assure you, become quite foreign to you across the next sixteen years." Alucard's stomach turned over at the number. Sixteen years was, even to one such as he, a very long time. Every second would feel like an eternity, and every moment sheer torture. "But first, we must establish the basis of your tutelage."

*

The study was positively swamped in the written word of man, and all things capable of intelligent thought. Tomes were stacked atop one another in dangerous towers, while every surface bore an open book, or unrolled scroll, or some dusty map of long forgotten lands. Drapes of velvet and lace hung down from the silk fibre cemetery of long dead spiders that shrouded the roof in their webbed cities, while a well-fed fireplace crackled with satisfaction, and cast golden light dancing across the sizeable room, and its two occupants. One of which the light seemed nervous to touch.

"Tell me, my son, what is the greatest lie the church has ever told?" Dracula began, looking to the exsanguination-inclined lordling for a response, though he received none in turn. Someone, it seemed, was not willing to play along. "The greatest lie is the most comforting lie; that Heaven defeated Hell in the war for man-kind. You might imagine that Satan and his forces were pushed back to the dark depths of the world beneath the white glow of God, but that is not the case. Instead, his forces claimed the fiery pits, and drove off the armies of the Lord back into the sanctity of Heaven. Consider, if you will, the Necromantic wars. Surely the Brotherhood taught you of those, after all, they did cause them by inadvertent proxy."

 

The over-dressed vampire of grey and gold finally responded with an affirming "Yes." before elaborating. "The Necromantic wars were fought between the people of Agharta, and the never-ending tide of invading werewolves, led by the wicked shadow of Knight Cornell, which besieged the province day and night. Though their technology was capable of creating mighty behemoths of stone and cursed magic, it was not enough to fend off the flood of lycans."

"But that is it, do you not see?" Dracula seemed almost excited for this, as if he had made this very speech dozens of times to an empty audience. Given his frequent bouts of isolation? That very likely may be the case. The Prince of darkness lifted up a faintly glowing purple shard- the telltale design of an Aghartian power crystal - from one of the tables.

"The wizards of Agharta used dark magic, a magic that is expressly forbidden by the Church of the Brotherhood, excluding, of course, the extremely tightly leashed variety utilised by dark clerics. Even though their province flourished, and was a land of peace and civility, God maintained his petty disdain for them, and ignored their pleas for help when the Lycans swarmed them. Lycans, I might add, born of God's most beloved subjects and their ante-mortem ascensions"

 

Alucard rolled his eyes, still shifting about the room so not to be forced too close to Dracula - the thought of which repulsed him to his core. "And what does that have to do with the almighty Father losing the war for Earth?"

"Because, if you had paid more attention to your teachings than your father had, you might have noted that the Angels of God were not warranted opportunity to defend the refugees from that archaic metropolis, nor the countless villages that were turned into bloodthirsty wolven troops. The Angels, however, are bound by several tenants that dictate they protect the floating city of gold before that of mud and ash below. The reason for that, despite the incredible power that His chosen heavenly knights bear, is that their numbers are drastically less than what the church would have you believe. Instead of spreading His word and protecting His creations, God hid within his holy keep, lacking the resolve necessary to challenge the Lycans, nor dare tread upon Satan's domain. Or, at least, what was once his emissaries' world before I claimed it."

"But that does not explain how this is Satan's world. If the betrayer won the war, why would we not bear witness to his cruelty? Instead, the world flourishes and the church guides people towards a holier, more charitable life with medicine and wisdom to spare for the sick and needy."

"Ahh but that is his doing! What better way to starve the pigs of God than to manipulate them from the shadows? His acolytes have long since infiltrated the church, and now sit upon thrones of gold to ordain holy wars. Their consecrated massacres only fuel the suffering in Hell, and divide mankind. Every day the legality of dark magic is permitted a little more, urging the clerics to begin utilising more wicked magicks when not under the surveillance of commoners. Had the Lord truly won the war, his grip upon the land would have forbade such teachings to continue - with holy fire and swift retribution; the dark arts would have been smothered within weeks."

"Meanwhile, the troops of the Brotherhood are no longer holy men trained from youth, but are often criminals and paupers given plentiful food, opportunity for violence, and protection from the nooseman. If God's name is spread with their deeds, then it is with the bitter sting of public lynchings, and the nauseating aftertaste of a silenced rape victim, not virtuous generosity, nor the spreading of so-called 'charitable lifestyles'."

"And you profess yourself deity fit to correct the wrongs of God by setting the world alight in madness and disdain?" Alucard shouted back, slamming his fist upon the table and sending several dusty tomes aflight. Dracula paused. He took a moment to turn around, despite his son's sudden outburst, to gaze out upon the ever-sprawling mass of Castlevania. The icy mountains of Wygol continuously let loose moonlit waves of wayward snow that gently set over his deathly keep. Soon enough, the sun would rise, and although the great storm above shielded his land from direct light, he preferred to retire to his chambers during such hours.

"I would not expect you to understand the complexities of this world, my son. Your life was one of memorising passages writ in the old tongue, spoken slowly to you by priests that hoard said knowledge for themselves." He turned over his shoulder, granting Alucard cause to immediately step back when beholding the bright, luminous red glare that clawed at the very soul of this wayward Belmont. "But should you lose your temper while I am in your presence again? I will strip the veins from your flesh, your flesh from your bones, and throw your bloodied carcass to the crows. You will not die, but you will suffer. Do I make myself perfectly clear."

 

Alucard grit his teeth, speaking slowly, and carefully. "Yes, father." 


	8. Chapter Five: The Red Herring of Lust, or the Cessation of Palilogy

Chapter Five

The Red Herring of Lust, or the Cessation of Palilogy

The young nightwalker fell once again upon the dusty floor, screaming in agony as another fresh wave of invisible hellfire carved unseen wounds deep into his nerves. The torment racked every inch of his muscled body as he writhed, squirming in some vain attempt to be free of this invisible foe before it cut off abruptly and presented him opportunity to collapse into the cool embrace of relief.

"This suffering you feel is completely unnecessary, Alucard." His father, who towered high above the yet-again failed assassin, offered no hand of support, nor generous gesture to the shaking nightwalker below him. Kindness, it seemed, was not a trait this figure bore, and why should it be? His twirled moustache rarely shifted to permit a smile, but often moved in favour of presenting those pristine, sharp fangs to whatever quaking form trembled fearfully before him.

"Surely you have surmised just how pointless these constant attempts are." As the record stands, this latest attack, with a quill in hand and that trademark Belmont fire burning within his Son's chest, was the third this night alone - barely a week into his tutelage (or, perhaps, sentence?).

The heaving doll bound in bewitching, yet incredibly fragile skin spat upon the musty floor, directing his hate-filled eyes to the deep red rug rather than the seemingly unkillable vampire. The Prince of Darkness was correct, much to the younger vampire's dismay. Even with his best efforts, he had not managed even the slightest of scratches upon that taunting carcass of one Gabriel Belmont, let alone anything resembling a death-blow. It was as if the reaper himself were too afraid to challenge Dracula's spell, let alone face him.

"Then I will try again until you are nothing but ash!" Slowly, the pale man pulled himself up into a seated position, with the roughly unbuttoned and unbound coat hanging loosely from his exposed chest. The tight vest, and cravat by extension had barely lasted a day before being torn free in favour of a more comfortable arrangement. Though the castle was cold, the chill rarely stung quite as much as it did when he was alive, and in turn, he bore his chest to this accursed world, much like his father (though each did so for very different reasons ). All that remained upon his torso was the open shirt that hung loosely (and without buttons) along his incredibly defined chest, and the long, grey coat. This custom gown was detailed, and bearing flourishes of both ebony velvet, and rich gold trimming. He cared not for it, in honesty, but dare not remove the coat entirely lest he find himself feeling a little too exposed within these icy hallways. Rationality had never been the strong suit of the Belmont clan, admittedly.

"Your death is mine to take, and the world of mankind will be the better for it."

The Prince of Darkness raised his many-ringed right claw up, and slid them through his curling, black locks, which twirled gracefully down his shoulders, and tickled the edges of his delineated, incredibly scarred chest. He gently brushed the completely unmatted hair back, before letting it swing loosely down in front of his barren breasts once more. "I never doubted your motive, rather I question why you continue this pointless exercise. Surely you can see the futility of this endeavour."

"Then I will die with the satisfaction of knowing I have deprived you of a son at least, or a failed protégé at most." he seethed in response, being the defiant, and clearly ungrateful, prisoner he was.

"First," the Lord of the Bernhard Castle began, toying with his rings absent-mindedly as he was, quite obviously, rather sick of these failed attempts by now. Annoyance tainted every word, and between that elegant smile were sharp teeth just begging to tear open his son's throat and drain him free of all that so-called 'accursed' blood.

"Such a wish implies I would permit you to die. This is incorrect. Secondly, you speak as if you were given to me in a manner other than upon the wind of violence and the acrid taste of necrosis. The fiery bloodline of the Belmonts' is one of immeasurable will, and it cries out for combat at all times. It seems only fitting to me that you return to me twice over with weapon in hand and the blood of the wicked marring your skin."

This back-and-forth dialogue had continued for the past week, and every time it had ended with either Alucard throwing himself claw-first at the shadow of his father, or with Dracula bidding the silver-haired grace to leave his presence immediately in a fit of frustration, born not entirely of his son's impetulant behaviour (that said, it hardly helped to soothe the many troubles plaguing the late Gabriel Belmont). By now all hope of theoretical learning, it seemed, was extinguished, and in turn, more practical learning was soon to be utilised.

"And yet I remain with skin stinking of soft sheets and herbal baths. Do you intend to smother my passion for your demise in this gilded cage?" The aforementioned frothy, hot baths mixed with rare salts mined deep within the earth, and herbs plucked from humid gardens, were admittedly rather lovely, and better yet? Poured by charming creatures that forever remained at an arm's length. They were a treat for his senses, of this there was no doubt, but still their company was denied. It was a request born of his own will, and the assumed will of his dearly departed Sypha.

Though their nymph-like figures leaned forward to pour the bubbling, iridescent waters upon his naked body, bearing all manner of poses that compromised his will and tempted his gaze, he resisted ever still. The bat-like wings, and the whisper of men's screams upon their delicate bodies, promised whatever embrace they offered was one of sin, and to consummate such lust would be to spit in the loving face of the Lord.

"I would wish you to see things my way - the correct way. The true way!" The Prince slammed his fist against the wall, and it, in turn, cracked beneath his wrath. "If it takes the entirety of these sixteen years then success will be all the sweeter for it."

"Then you will find yourself at the end of those winters with little to show, and no achievements to flaunt. Of course, if all you seek is to make me suffer then you will have claimed victory tenfold over. What a grand achievement that must be."

Alucard did not even attempt to hide his sarcasm, nor the glare he shot at his inadmittedly handsome father. The earlier threats of torment seemed almost appealing now when compared to the elongated speeches between hours of wandering this seemingly endless castle. No matter how far the nightwalker ran, no matter how many windows he climbed through, or towers he scaled down, he would always find himself back within his father's presence to be firmly chastised for such endeavours. Fate, it seemed, was not on his side. That, or the Castle itself mocked his every step.

"And should you suffer? What then? Hmm?" Meanwhile, Prince Dracula quite clearly tired of all of this. Simplicity was a trait found with the creatures of the night. No matter how big, or brutish, or rebellious they were, they all bowed down before his power. Those that dared defy him were impaled upon great spikes, and left squirming in wait for the morning sunlight and, after hours beneath that heavenly heat, death. How he relished in their torment, as cruel and barbarous as it sounded. "Will you deny that, even in years bound to my will, that you have learned nothing of substance? Will you close your eyes and ears to my teachings, or will you permit me-"

"I will permit you nothing!" Another outburst - one that inspired Dracula to bury his rage into bare-knuckled fists once more, with his jaw locked and teeth sealed shut as to not let a single fury-filled syllable escape his lips, for now he remained still and silent. For now. "You raze villages to the ground, and salt the earth! You set loose packs of Lycans to terrorize innocents, and mock their names by laying the blame before the church! You take men's souls, and make them your slaves!"

"Perhaps the same can be said of all religions?" He offered - an olive branch in these trying times, immediately slapped away by the bare-chested long-dead knight.

"Your words are as empty as your soul! If hell will not take you, then I will see your body bound in chains, and buried beneath a thousand skeleton-strewn necropoleis for all that you have slain, hidden from the world until even time itself forgets the name 'Dracula'."

"So it is memory you value, then? And what of my memory, or better yet? What of your own, and those you care for?" Within the depths of his Princely scowl, a cinder of luminescent crimson did flicker for but a fleeting second, and with its passing the walls of his castle seemed to pour that mouth-watering ichor from every crack, splattering upon the floor in pools of thick, red liquid. From this running sanguine, visions of snow and ice did melt into existence, and soon all that remained of the castle was Alucard, and his father tall above his still seated position.

 

*

 

Great trees rose high to the blue sky whilst bearing heavy loads of pure snow, which in turn covered the enveloped grass below in the telltale mark of a late frost bearing into Spring. A deer, scrawny, but clearly healthy, gently nibbled upon what little green grass pushed through the frosty carpet. The air was crisp and nipped at the edges of Trevor Belmont's statuesque skin.

"More illusions. What ever did I expect? And, pray tell..." The princeling trailed off as his gaze caught sight of bright red darting between the trees as stealthily as a starving wolf having sighted its prey. Wild maroon locks, and their respective owner, burst free of the underbrush and leapt upon the grazing stag, seconds before he drove a roughly sharpened, and unmistakably crude hunting knife deep into the violently kicking beast's tender neck, before slicing its throat open. Steaming blood splattered across the slowly melting ice, followed promptly by the heavy thump of a dead buck and its lifeless stare.

The muscular form of a young man rose up above the twitching corpse, directing his yellow eyes to the cerulean heavens above, and let loose a long sigh. Though distinctly beautiful, there was an air of natural masculinity hanging heavily about every muscle of his toned form, which clearly thrived within the mountainous regions left unspoiled by the civilised world. Upon his handsome face were sharp, angular features that rivalled even those his long dead father bore in unlife, and acted to direct said long-dead man's eyes to supple lips that promised him the world. It was too much to bear, and he was forced to look away.

"Damn you." Alucard hissed at his father, but rather than meeting the vampire lord eye-to-eye, he directed his anger at the red-stained snow. "Damn you to the pits of Hell."

The Prince of Darkness chuckled at that amusing little quip, and slowly (but methodically) began to circle the still, merlot-haired pulchritude. "Oh I assure you; the denizens of such places would flee in terror as soon as I arrived. I told you that my castle bears witness to all memories, not exclusively my own. This one, it seems, is courtesy of-"

"Don't you dare speak his name." Dracula's immediate scowl was met by that of Alucard's own with equal ferocity shot back in return. Vibrant ruby met hate-filled citrine head-on, and for a moment it seemed as if the two would leap upon one another like unseen wolves amongst the wind that skirted around this ignorant mirage's vicinity.

"...Of your son, then, when he ventured within my domain." The princeling steeled himself, before forcing his pretty face towards the man he was denied the satisfaction of watching grow, once more. He was younger than when the undead vampire-hunter had beheld him first. Now he was barely into his twentieth spring, and free of the large majority of the scars that the wayward Belmont nightwalker had bore witness to upon their first meeting.

Alucard, in his undeath, was stripped of such markings, as well as the wrinkles of his past life in favour of soft, ash skin that cracked like fragile pottery.

An illusion, such as this red-haired memory, could not have been further from the present state of its originator, who currently resided within the Belnades Mausoleum, as his mother would have wanted.

However, the young Simon Belmont before him was clearly quite alive. The steam that rose from his tribalistic leather attire lined with thick fur, and the sweat that dripped down along the temptingly defined muscles of an unbitten neck, only further guaranteed such a claim, as well as lighting something deep within Alucard that he had never felt before within his living years. It was a primal urge that cried for him to press forward and embrace the young man closely. With their muscled chests pressed against one another, he would bear Simon's neck to the cold sky above and dig his sharp fangs deep within the sensitive flesh of the human, and gently suck every last forbidden drop of that impossibly delicious, hot substance free of the wine-red haired beauty.

"What purpose does this serve then? Do you want me to fall to your feet in some misplaced petition for this hopeless fantasy to continue?" Even though he could manage his typical rhetoric, the vampire could not look away from his long-lost son. In spite of the snow that crunched beneath black, detailed boots, the red-headed Belmont heeded the circling Prince not. He was as captivated as his father, who was in such a state that not even the shifting form of his own progenitor, with his long, flowing cloak of red darkness that shifted about the seemingly frozen man staring blindly to the heavens, could drag his deathly stare free of its anchor.

"Nothing so primitive. Rather," The Prince of Darkness turned about the young man one final time so that his back was toward Alucard, and his malicious smile could slip over his shoulder to admire the long dead man. "I want you to remember what you are. You are a creature of the night, born of a man's mind and soul. Your desires and needs remain the same, even if you so obviously deny them." His sharp claws lightly, yet agonizingly leisurely, slid up along the hunter's throat, causing the apparition to straighten up as if the cold chill of death just cut through his skin.

"You may posture yourself as some infallible knight of order, but I have seen within the still depths of your inert heart, and I know without doubt that it thrills at this beguiling lie." The slayer of Lords gently directed Simon's face away from the warm glow of the sun, and towards the seemingly unseen undead Trevor Belmont.

"But of course, feel free to prove me wrong." were his last words as he stepped behind Simon and, like the hope of ever beholding the living man once known as Simon Belmont again within the real world? Was gone in the flash of an eye, leaving Trevor still as a doe caught in the sight of an alluring hunter, who stared back in turn not at the snow, but at the nightslayer himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear reader,
> 
> If at any point you were unsure of where I was drumming this fantastical image of a long-haired, beautiful Simon Belmont from, you need only look at the wonderful works of Ayami Kojima for the 1993 remaster of the original Castlevania, titled "Castlevania Chronicles" (Not to be confused with "Castlevania: The Dracula X Chronicles"). I believe it entirely appropriate that I take heed of such lovely designs, given how the canon LoS design of Simon Belmont is heavily inspired by them (albeit in an incredibly hyper-masculine rendition that borders on absurd).
> 
> If you are truly wounded by my lack of blonde Simon Belmont, I strongly suggest you watch Conan the Barbarian instead. 
> 
> Sincerely,  
> The Author.


	9. Chapter Six: The Persecution of Preferred Prey - Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part One of Three

Chapter Six

The Persecution of Preferred Prey, Part One of Three

What is the value of a man?

Is his merit determined by physical strength, or the character that accompanies it? Is he merely worth his weight in flesh, or is his bill writ upon his achievements? Dare one even presume he is worth no more than whatever miserable secrets he is compiled of?

If, hypothetically, it is the secrets of man that determine one's value, then the cold corpse of Trevor Belmont was a cadaver of clandestine opulence. What exactly had transpired during the events of his life? Was he solely raised within the halls of the Brotherhood as his mysterious father was, with little merit beyond an assumedly countless score of victories led against the creatures of dark (which in turn promises only the most scarred and devoted of spirits)? What led him to marry one Sypha Belmont who, if one is driven to pour over ancient birth records, is suspiciously unremarkable for a descendant of the Belnades clan. It was as if her placement in time and space meant nothing at all beyond the satisfaction of yet unseen creators and their facile desires.

The answers to the prevenient enquiries can only drag the murkiest of answers from the shallow puddles of lore, as if God himself cared little for the truth, and was content to leave it as barren as possible.

Though mystery flows free of this unwritten man, we can be sure of one thing above all else. That, dear readers, is the calibre of hardship that shaped both his, and his father's, lives. Such tribulation comes not only from the claws of the wicked, but from the immaterial, yet suffocatingly tight, collar of the Brotherhood that strangled their future as if it were but a babe in a cot, and the church was (accurately portrayed as) quite the malcontent miscreant of malicious machinations.

It is a cold, unthankful existence, wrought with constant struggle and terror. The things these fated warriors must behold is enough to drive any saner man into the inky seas of madness. Many a week would be spent upon the trail of horrendous beasts that feast upon entire villages. With mud and grime caking their boots; they press through barbed forests and trap-riddled tombs of vain kings, in search of the greatest prey known to man; that which hunts man in turn.

Some would suggest those of the Brotherhood are monster slayers, given uniform and devotion, but that would serve only to deny the primary discrepancies between the two, rather than acknowledge them.

Above all, where a monster slayer and a Brotherhood knight differ is in their resolution. A knight of light will slay in the name of their Lord, and it is with holy devotion they burn the sacrilegious filth and vermin of heresy from this festering world. Their childhood will be one of wooden splinters, bruised skin, and broken bones on a near weekly basis, fed a consistent diet of gruel and watery soup only served before, and after, the sun rises.

Meanwhile, those that hunt the night free of the church's trappings are little more than soldiers of fortune.

It is with hate (likely fueled by vengeance, for there is plenty of that bitter potion to go around) that they fend off the wicked with leather whips soaked in stolen holy water, typically for a price.

Make no mistake; the childhood of those akin to Simon Belmont is of anything but leisure. Every day, for nigh on 30 years, he would face the harshest of conditions. Without family and home, he matured into a man amongst the wild tribes of the mountains, venturing out to the valleys below with whip in hand for what wealth can be acquired doing "God's work for Him".

   
*  
  


Of Simon's life, it was the months of Summer that proved the most bountiful, for the game was as plentiful as the arrant savagery belonging to all those desperate for fat and meat in their stomach. The red-haired Belmont was not above such a list.

Meanwhile, it was the long Winter that bloated into the better half of both Autumn and Spring, that tested him the most. Many nights were spent without ration or comfort, for he was (even amidst the people of the mountain) excluded, and denied respite from the frost lest he bear gold or fur in trade.

If culture is cultivated by the fertile lands of art, and elegance from the decadent gardens of royalty, then it is ferocity that springs forth from the rough mountainside of hardship like a weed most virile.

It was this wildness that flickered beneath the golden gaze of the young Simon Belmont, who has spent near two decades without crest or hearth, and inspired him not to parlay with this strange creature that stares back at him, but to strike first, and true. He leapt, like a wild animal, upon Alucard, who promptly caught the youthful man's hand within his own sharp talons.

Globules of still-warm deer blood dripped upon pallid skin as he struggled against the fiery redhead's fury, promising the knife true course directly into the nightwalker's neck should he relinquish his struggle for even a second. Alucard could feel this memory's firm, muscular form against his own, carved not of training and discipline, but of weighty blows courtesy of Mother Nature's heavy cudgel. He could feel the other man's taut thighs shifting against his own, and the weight of that sculpted chest barely concealed beneath crude fur and wound leather.

A heavy aroma of sweat clung to Simon's still-living skin, and his breath reeked of flame-roasted game and the cheapest wine one could afford. A firm kick pushed the most wayward of the Belmont clan off the grey figure, but within moments he had regained his footing and sprang back upon Alucard with the dagger lurching forward in both of his hands.

Quickly, the silver-haired beauty rolled away from the violent stab and was forced to take a step back away from every quick slash aimed at him. His superhuman strength had become, it seemed, but a fragment of what it truly was within this world of smoke and mirrors. Perhaps, within Dracula's world, only the power of the Prince of Darkness himself remained true?

"Stop!" he cried out, but the orphaned man responded only with another drained slash which sailed well past its mark, before lunging forward weakly. His stamina was spent from the hunt, and even adrenaline can only carry one so far. His new quarry sidestepped him easily enough, before wrapping his finely attired arms around the human's shoulders, who flailed like a rabid beast caught in a trap. "I said stop!" That euphonious voice barked once more, but it was only the lack of energy that slowed Simon Belmont's rage. "I am not your foe. Please! Regain your senses, wayward child!"

Directly beneath Alucard's mouth lay Simon's unarmoured neck - no fur, nor leather covered here, revealing soft, scar-free skin that tempted the vampire horrendously so. He could already feel his fangs aching to push in so agonizingly slowly as to revel in each virginal layer of skin giving way to his hunger. "I know the mark of the cursed better than any within these mountains!" a new voice echoed - and it took a moment for the fragile undead to identify it as the sweet tones of Simon Belmont. If he still yet bore a heart it would surely have shattered knowing that this was, truly, the only time he might behold his son beyond the murky shores of sleep once more.

"I am of the night, of this I know, but we need not fight! Surely you can see that."

The merlot-haired tribal began to resist Alucard's grip once again, haphazardly trying to stab at his perceived foe despite how obvious it was that, in his current position, he could manage no such strike.

The nightwalker lunged forward this time, but Simon was prepared, and in turn, pulled himself short and struck low. His bloody dagger barely grazed the pallid princeling's thigh, courtesy of a quick dodge that ensured his intestines, and crotch, did not bear a new, and very unwanted, sharp visitor imbedded deep within them.

"Control yourself, Simon!" he shouted, and suddenly the fighting stopped. It was as if a vase had shattered within one of the many dusty tombs below the earth, sounding out across the silent forest and executing the passions of violence prematurely. The mountain-man remained silent, golden eyes inspecting every inch of Alucard for any sign of recollection he might bear to the lost Belmont. Or, maybe he was simply looking for a weakness, a vulnerability, to bury his trusted knife into.

It was Alucard who broke the silence once again. "Yes, I..." he began, carefully choosing his words lest he step upon the toes of this world and anger its very existence. "I know who you are. I cannot, or perhaps, I should not tell you of how. Nor from whence, or when, I hail. This dream is..."

"Dream?" Simon asked, and the nightwalker hissed at himself. He directed his gaze first at the imprinted snow from their skirmish. His footwork had been all over the place - sloppy, careless. He had not fought man for many years, even before his own demise.

Then, his golden eyes slithered up from the accusatory snow, and along the well-knit, shapely legs of the Simon-like apparition. There was something familiar about his body - it bore many of the features and designs he shared during such years, but the mark of the wild was unmistakable, dividing their bodies, and making it all too apparent to Trevor just how irrefutably desirable his son appeared. Beyond the thicket of the trees, wild wolves howled, no doubt having picked up the scent of freshly spilled blood. "Or perhaps fantastical nightmare."

"You speak oddly, stranger. Your eyes mark you as inhuman, and as such? I trust you less than the wolves that roam this forest. Theirs is a lot of simple nature, free of the strange words you use." With his dagger in hand, Simon gestured at his yet unknown relative. "You will come with me, or you will feed their pack. The hours of the day are short this time of year, and daylight will vanish beneath the western mountains soon. I will determine what to do with you later."

Caution urged Alucard to voice his mind - after all, who knew what lengths his father was willing to permit this illusion to go to in order to prove a point? "And, should you declare my death due, you believe you can manage such a slaying with that?"

"Do not tempt me, foul knave. I have slain wretches greater than you with less."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear reader,
> 
> I have returned from my hiatus, however, I must inform you now that I am feeling rather drained when it comes to writing. I will do my best to push through, but that said? You may yet see a break longer than two to three weeks between parts. Make no mistake; I do not intend to abandon this project prematurely. All good stories must have a climax, as well as an ending. I have far too much planned to surrender all hope and fall into a stint of seemingly endless ennui quite yet.
> 
> Sincerely,  
> The Author.


End file.
